Traditions and Priorities
by KnittedSweater
Summary: "He loved her. She loved him. But their love was sort of twisted. Destined to be enemies by a scaly prisoner, destined to be lovers by their bone-trapped, fleshy hearts. Destined to be best friends, destined to be merciless opponents." Mergana. Verging on pure fluff, if it isn't already.


**ok guys i really really really like mergana **

**like my ship was going all perfect 'round season one and two and then sPOILER _he poisons her_**

**and i just feel half disappointed because _they had so much potential together _but of course merlin had no choice and augh this ship tears my heart into pieces **

**/sobbing**

**warnings: um nothing really, this is just really long. i don't even think there's _cursing _in this one holy crap (but if yer in need of some real angsty merlin maybe you could read "falling" no jk i'm sorry i shouldn't advertise in my author's notes holy crap i'm sorry i'll stop now)**

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**word count: 1,102 words**

**disclaimer: i do not own merlin.**

**canon setting: early season one and two**

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**Traditions and Priorities**

Merlin couldn't say that he didn't love her.

He loved her. She loved him.

But their love was sort of twisted. Destined to be enemies by a scaly prisoner, destined to be lovers by their bone-trapped, fleshy hearts. Destined to be best friends, destined to be merciless opponents. It hurts his head, makes her drift off more than allowed at meetings or dinners. It hurts her head, makes him trip or drop things more than usual while tending to Arthur.

Her head ponders through facts and feelings, laying them out on an imaginary map like the ones Uther and Arthur are scrutinizing now. She maps out her feelings, how she supposes he feels, and how their lives have intertwined so much. She wonders, "Where is the hate? Where is the loathing we are destined to have?"

She thinks destiny will have something to do with her magic. Merlin insists that he could never despise her for her magic. She wonders if he has some little spark of it within him, too, but his lips stop moving when she asks.

She thinks herself a cruel monster, possessing such powers.

He still thinks her beautiful as ever, her dark hair in wavy locks, her green eyes that only warm his heart, piercing and pitying the hearts of others who could never love her as he has.

She wonders when "has" will become "had".

It's been strangely pleasant with him. She feels free, like those cawing, cheerful birds soaring over the great blue sky. She doesn't feel a heavy weight marked "Uther" on her heart anymore. No, no, Merlin's gotten rid of that long ago.

He does _far_ too much for her.

Whether it be smiling at her, letting her take out her frustration on him, or crying until his neckerchief's a sorry excuse for a piece of clothing. He gets her flowers, despite her obvious bitterness towards such cliché gifts. Flowers are too _patronizing,_ too_ blatant_ to hide the giver's lust for her reputation. But flowers from Merlin are an entirely different matter. They aren't elegant and numerous and swathed in silk and in a gleaming vase. They're a far cry from the colorful plants she's received, the length of her fingertips to her elbow. They're usually common daisies or dogwood, maybe a lily or an iris or a dahlia. Any they appear on her bedside table, still wet from the morning dew. Pretty, little meadow flowers about the length of her hand, the simple colors not very eye-catching in her stony room.

But they're enough for her.

In a little, chipped beaker or an out-of-commission vial stands the flowers every week or so. Water is filled to the midpoint, and they still smell like the earthy ground he rooted them from. Their little white roots grow over the week, threatening to escape from their container. She places them on her windowsill. Every single one.

There are twenty-two, now, each bunch of flowers sending a message of love or apologies of comfort, depending on the week's events. She can see the phases of their love through them. She can see the weeks where she needed a shoulder to lean on, where they'd gotten into tear-blinding arguments, and where they both just felt so content with the world.

It's been a wonderful twenty-two weeks.

He couldn't agree more.

He loves her more than anybody could ever imagine. More than Arthur could love Gwen, _hell,_ more than Uther could love Ygraine.

He finds her adorable and quirky. He finds her everything that he deems perfect with the world, with a hint of dark seriousness. He likes it, because it makes life interesting. Her dark thinking is what ignites her passion, and he loves it. He loves _her._

He spoils her in ways other would never spoil their loved ones. Other would constantly give jewels or lush petticoats and dresses if their loved one was born a high-blood, like she. But he brings her simple gifts that he knows will win her heart over any glittering necklace any day. Flowers, smiles, little kisses, more smiles, god-awful poems in his scraggly writing (that she never makes fun of, ever, and he's grateful), and wreaths of dandelions strewn into her hair when they find some time alone in the forest.

They love each other far too much for no one to notice, unless you're as emotion-blind as Uther and Arthur combined.

It's the middle of the twenty-third weeks and a war is raging at Camelot's eastern borders. Arthur's sent to go, so that means Merlin is, too.

She doesn't know how she'll survive.

Neither does he.

Knowing it's been well over five months since they've come to this odd relationship, Merlin decides to tell her. Tell her that he _loves_ her and that he has _magic_ and that he'll do _whatever he can_ to get back to her.

But it's Arthur's life first.

At first, his magic hits her like Camelot's fastest horse, but she swats it away. She's been thinking and believing it for a while, now.

But what really hurts is that he doesn't put his own safety first. It angers her, because she knows Arthur won't, either. His priority list depends on the situation, and he's never first. It's either her or Arthur or Gwen or Gaius.

This time, he's second to last, she thinks. Arthur (who'll be fighting and vigor), Gaius (who'll need assistance whenever he can), herself, himself, then Gwen (who'll be stuck in the castle, too, worrying over Arthur as she does Merlin).

He kisses her goodbye in the darkness of her room, the white roots of their flowers tangling like a cobweb now.

"Please tell me you'll be safe."

"Safe enough to survive."

"You're mine _forever,_ right?"

"_Forever."_

Now she's wishing that her seconds were as long as minutes, her minutes were as long as hours, and her hours were as long as days, and that forever truly, dearly, meant _forever,_ because when they leave for battle, he'll be Arthur's. When he helps out in the infirmary, he'll be Gaius'. Only in the alcoves and her cold, stone room will he be hers. But she knows he'll come back, just like a moth comes back to torchlight.

She wants to stay in his embrace. It's warm, loving, caring, accepting, and _understanding._ There's a kind of feeling you just can't get anywhere else.

After twenty-two weeks, they'll have broken their tradition, she thinks. But when Gwen sets a yellowing vial of daisies next to her paperwork the next day, she wants to curl up and sob.

Arthur was_ never_ first.


End file.
